


The Work of a Scientist

by TelepathJeneral



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24599521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelepathJeneral/pseuds/TelepathJeneral
Summary: Sigma de Kuiper is a willing captive if the conditions are right. (Also, titles are hard.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

The first day spent outside of the facility was incredibly enlightening. Doctor de Kuiper had been blessed with the full complement of his credentialed education, and his observational skills had not dulled with age. His hard work and diligence had shaped his character, and no matter where he might go or what he might do, he would always take pride in the certificates and diplomas that had once marked his advancement. 

Life was marked with difficulty, and of late, there had been a certain  _ confinement _ which had made life more difficult.There had been a pattern of dullness, of staleness. He had not been allowed to breathe. He had felt his limits and tested them, and continued to learn. The fools who surrounded him had tried to barricade him in, had strapped him down and drugged him, but these had only been stopgap measures. They could not have truly stopped him.

He had not expected his release down to the moment. He had anticipated it, yes, but even when the men had entered the building, he had not identified them. They’d slapped electrodes on him, shocking him into submission, and even with his body in confused unconsciousness, he had been learning more. Outside of the facility, returned to the world, his mind could grow and wander once more, expanding ever further.

When he’d opened his eyes again, it had been to a clear blue sky, with a gentle rocking motion informing him of his position on a large boat, and the sleek silver finish of an Omnic face just within his peripheral vision.

The Omnic had lifted a glass filled with a summery clear liquid, angling it as if in a toast, and set the glass beside Sigma. “A congratulations are in order. I would partake, but as you can see…” A careful hand moved in an explanatory gesture, and Sigma inhaled deeply to feel the nerve endings in each length of his body. Fingers and toes tingled, his heart beat, and his muscles responded. He was  _ free _ .

After an impossibly long moment, Sigma shifted a hand beneath him to push himself into a seated position. The Omnic did not visibly respond, and Sigma watched him carefully to see what he might do. It was likely a ‘he’: clad in a neatly tailored suit, red accents blending easily with the dark lines and few glowing seams of his Omnic body. Sigma could feel how their eyes met, but their expressions were equally blank, remaining clear until the Omnic looked away first.

“My name is Maximilien. What should I call you?”

“Sigma de Kuiper.” It came so quickly. Too quickly. Sigma felt his tongue rebelling, his mind screaming. He wasn’t Sigma, but he wasn’t de Kuiper either, but all the names ran together. He looked out to the sea, where the waves rolled up and down--

Sine waves. Sine, cosine. When an item is a wave, it behaves in specific ways, but light functions both as a wave and as a particle. Light does not escape gravity, but shifts, the waves bending, stretching, elongating.

They’d sent him out here so he didn’t destroy something. They had to put him on a boat. And they’d sent him with an Omnic, who could be replaced if the worst came to the worst. 

They deserved to see him at his worst.

Sigma took a deep breath, reaching for the glass that had been provided, and took a sip to find the light sparkling notes of peach champagne exploding over his tongue. Even before the--the--even  _ before _ that, he hadn’t had much alcohol. But this was not just a peace offering: Maximilien had style.

“Please call me Sigma.” He managed it without hesitation, his mind clearing as he studied the bubbles in the glass. “Though Doctor de Kuiper would also suit me.”

“Of course.” Maxmilien nodded once. “There is cheese to complement the champagne, if you’d like, and a selection of fruit. I’ve been assured that they are of excellent flavor.”

“Assured.” Sigma smiled, reaching to pick up a piece of cheese prepared on a small cracker. “It seems that the court food tasters have once again found a profitable profession.”

There was a beat, a hesitation, and Sigma found himself waiting for Maximilien’s response. He did not enjoy waiting. “Without human needs, you also have some protection from our foibles. I have interacted with ship computers and university machines, but these are limited. They are not Omnics.”

“I am not strictly a person of politics, Doctor de Kuiper.” Maximilien looked out to the sea, each part of him displaying clean lines and angles. Sigma liked that: he could see himself enjoying many moments in Maximilien’s presence, simply admiring the cleanliness of that Omnic body. “And yes: we are people. I did not personally get involved with the dramatics of the Omnic crisis, but I am aware of its ramifications. I am not easily offended, but I am accustomed to a certain level of...shall we say, ‘courtesy’? I may not seek you out often, and we may not even meet after this. But we will ask you to work with Omnics, and it may behoove you to evaluate these issues more closely.

“As for ship computers and adding machines, they are not comparable. There are simulated personalities, yes, but they are strictly functional. My personality was not crafted or designed to fulfill any purpose beyond my own, and that is how I like it.” Maximilien looked back to Sigma, sitting up. “May I offer an observation?”

“Please.”

“We have undertaken certain risks to secure you. You are an asset. And yet you have not been so crass as to ask about the details of our negotiations. You are not a monetarily-minded man.”

“I survived on boxed pasta and cheap beer in university. Money is not the purview of academics.”

“Aside from economists.” Maximilien offered a hum of pleasure, placing his hands against the hull of the ship beneath him. “In return for your freedom, Doctor de Kuiper, we require your assistance. The organization I work for is not one to leave its assets and agents without means, but a certain degree of organizational loyalty is necessary.”

“Ah.” This was why he’d mentioned money. This was either a lawyer or a banker, and Sigma felt himself shrinking from the idea of either. But Maximilien was unusual. New.  _ Interesting _ . 

“Do you know what would be required?”

“Not as of yet. On a personal note, our organization is in the habit of... _ collecting _ persons of interest, individuals with unique talents. You fit that category.”

“And this would have something to do with my exposure to a gravity well.”

“A--” Maximilien actually hesitated, his focus shifting. “We were told it was a black hole.”

“A colloquialism. Technically, we should be saying a ‘gravitic anomaly which exceeded controllable boundaries’, but I will let the nomenclature slide.” Sigma offered a thin smile, prompting Maximilien to hum again.

“Your proficiency in physics is also impressive.”

“There are hundreds of people with my same qualifications.”

“But none who were selected to oversee the Newton mission. You have value, Doctor de Kuiper. And I appreciate finding items of value.” 

The conversation lapsed, allowing the gentle thud of the waves against the ship’s hull to grow somehow louder in Sigma’s hearing. He tried to understand Maximilien more: an Omnic, a computer-generated, simulated personality, who had “stayed out of” the Omnic crisis. As with money, Sigma had avoided the topics of politics for the most part, and had interacted only occasionally with Omnics in a social capacity. Allowing Omnics into the hard sciences had been a difficult debate, and Sigma had not taken a side--the preferred route for academics seeking reliable funding. 

He had been freed: conditionally. If his confinement had changed, well, it was not so unusual. He had signed contracts for worse things. He was being “collected”, yes. As an “item of value”. But that was just Maximilien’s way! To be appreciated was comforting. 

He wasn’t signing anything. That was a nice change. And with an Omnic...yes, it could be interesting. It would be interesting. 

There would be so much to learn. 


	2. Chapter 2

Earth was so limited. So confined. Sigma worried about relying on stereotypes, but a moment’s reassurance reminded him that very few people had been in his position, and a few jokes about space were his privilege. He’d spoken English from the age of four, and wordplay came easily, but in entering his new position, there were few opportunities for banter. 

Maximilien had been interesting, yes. Despite the Omnic’s doubts, they had in fact met a second time when Sigma was “transferred” to a Middle Eastern facility. Sigma had been able to use a commercial airline under a false name and wearing--unfortunately--a false mustache. A clipped, no-nonsense woman had helped him paint on eyebrows, since his hair had yet to regrow. 

Flying was  _ tedious _ . He had seen this planet from above, been able to capture it between his cupped hands, let it illuminate his days. He’d traced her curves as if she was a lover. And now he was stuck ferrying across the surface, a mere thirty thousand feet into the atmosphere.

It wasn’t even enough to lessen the gravity. During the landing, he felt for a moment that he might truly soar: that he might be able to reach out, to spin and escape the grip of gravity, but then the landing gear hit the runway and he was yanked down. He said nothing to the agent, or whatever, that came to “fetch” him, and then he was settled into a low black car that sped across the desert.

There was no “click” of his chains, but the limitations of his position were clear in each movement and turn. He said nothing to the agents who sat in the vehicle, and ignored the blunt noses of the guns they held. It was a silent, tedious drive, and when he was finally released into the facility, he found his small room more of a comfort than a restriction. Perhaps his time in forced confinement had made him agoraphobic.

Maximilien had not handled any of the details personally; Sigma was learning that the Omnic preferred to keep his metaphorical hands very clean. Sigma had been permitted to read dossiers and compose his own questions, some of which were properly answered and some of which were not. The “organization” was not one Sigma had seen before: its connections were loose and disparate, small cells across the globe instead of firmly planted in one place. As non-politically minded as he was, it took him several days to realize that there were several elements of outright terrorism in the information he was provided. 

As he was welcomed to the facility, Sigma considered his responsibilities. Since returning to Earth, priorities had shifted. Much had changed. In the depths of his madness, he had already destroyed equipment and materials. There was no regret over those losses.

Humans, too. The memories were fractured, but he could access them with time. When he’d finished with his reading for the week, or the day, he retreated to the halls of his own mind, tracking the days and weeks he’d lost to his insanity. He’d “disassociated”, as they put on the reports. Entered “manic states” and had to be restrained. He had raved and ranted, and no one took him seriously.

He was grateful for that, at least. They weren’t worthy to hear his insights, his visions. And in his memories, he could access the sensation, the sound and sight of bodies crumbling under his power.

They were beautiful things. Resonant with the same strains of passion and power that filled a Russian overture, or an Italian opera. He found that Mozart’s work was interesting, but Vivaldi had the fevered energy that spoke to him more earnestly. And then there were the Wagnerian operas--

Each melody, with its themes and rhythms, terrible bass movements and trembling treble cries, gripped his soul and pulled him out of his worst depths. He had been allowed the music system, and it filled his days. It had helped him  _ develop _ . And searching his memories, canvassing them for information, strengthened his position. He could kill.  _ Had _ killed. They’d made the mistake of using human attendants more than once, and once he’d tapped into his power, he’d made mincemeat out of them. Even the Omnics crumpled and sparked when he slammed them into the walls, and they’d had to refine their methods to sedate him from a distance. 

Like an animal. He’d been twisted up there, sent up with their money and bound to their regulations, and then they’d shut him away like an animal. When they found something that they, personally, could not understand, they feared it. They’d locked him away and tried to beat him into submission, and it didn’t take. 

He frightened them, and he found that he enjoyed it. 

Maximilien had not been frightened of him in the same way. Sigma had replayed their interactions, lived them again and again, placed himself in the role he’d played, and tried to understand the Omnic expressions. Maximilien wasn’t a man, was he, or at least, he wasn’t a human. The expressions he could make were limited, but Sigma had noted how the Omnic had utilized his body language carefully. The hands, the angle of the head and torso--each part was positioned in relation to the others, as if Maximilien were following the golden ratio. Not every Omnic did that.

There was reason to believe that Maximilien  _ knew _ what he could do, and yet was unafraid anyway. Sigma liked that: he liked Maximilien’s flattery, and the cautious words and half-truths. It was somehow comforting to conceal everyone’s intentions rather than pretend they were all friends and chums. He’d been able to see footage of his own “return”: how his colleagues made their speeches, tried to cry over his loss or rambled about their deep appreciation for his contributions. It was pathetic to watch them. Like ants around a disturbed anthill, they scrambled for order and purpose. 

His stability improved daily, and he made sure to credit the open spaces and open air available in the facilities. Oh, he’d had psychologists evaluate him in captivity, yes, but this new captivity allowed him to self-monitor. He was growing wiser, keener. He could feel the edges of his own sanity, and needed no external meddler to probe his psyche. 

The facility in the desert contained the same faculties he’d come to expect, and fortunately, the guards stayed mostly out of his way. It was a quiet place, but he had a few visitors, academics who tried, like Maximilien, to discuss the nature of their work without ever saying what it was. Sigma found it a careful balancing act to consider himself a physicist, while also maintaining the control and power that his research had brought him. His visitors preferred engaging with him as a doctor. It reassured them to be in the presence of a professional like themselves. However, without the resources of a full laboratory or computer station, his discussions were mostly theoretical, and Sigma found it easy enough to dissuade further questions by referring directly to his “incident”. Even other academics found it difficult conversational ground, and made their escapes quickly.

When Akande arrived, then, Sigma knew there was something different. Akande did not mention his doctorates,or even refer obliquely to his research. They shook hands--a unique pleasure, as Sigma hadn’t shaken hands in months--and Akande invited him to walk through the facility and tour the sequestered gardens. Sigma was delighted by the opportunity, and found none of the usual masculine posturing that he had encountered with other men of formidable stature. Yes, he’d developed a rigorous exercise routine. And yes, he’d managed to keep the muscle even after returning to Earth--somehow. Akande was even more muscled than he was, and his shirt was stretched tight across biceps and pectorals honed by years of work. Sigma studied him as they walked, refusing to be distracted by the luxury of young trees and ferns curling over the walkway. 

“I’m glad you’ve come here, Doctor de Kuiper. We’re honored to host you.”

“Host?” Sigma laughed softly. “I’ve spoken with Maximilien. The nature of our arrangement is no secret. I am happy to be here, but I do look forward to fulfilling my end of the bargain.”

“Arrangements. Bargains. You  _ have _ been speaking with Maximilien.” Akande sighed, turning the joke into a more somber observation. “I am not here to bargain with you, Doctor de Kuiper.”

“Call me Sigma.”

“Sigma? But it was--” Akande hesitated, and Sigma found the pause exciting. This huge, strong man, fumbling before Sigma’s potential madness.

“I assumed Maximilien had marked my preference in some sort of file. Sigma de Kuiper.” ‘Siebren’ existed, yes, and he could come to accept the name again. But that man was...younger. Naive. Flimsy, in body and spirit. “You are a man who has lost a part of yourself. The sensation is not one to ignore, but is one to be experienced.”

“They assured me the prosthetic was unnoticeable.”

“Oh, it is.” Sigma could not restrain his smile, edged with pleasure at again finding this man unsettled. “Akande, you are a product of a unique time and place. You carry yourself the way other men hold weapons. The way you think about yourself is conscious. Intentional.”

“If I didn’t know better, Sigma, I would question that your doctorate was truly in physics alone.”

“Flattery still holds its charms.” Sigma nodded deeply, slowing to step into the embrace of a sweeping, willowy plant. Akande was flexible enough to transition to Sigma’s first name, despite his uncertainty, and the man’s control over his expression was complete. Even his clear, defined syllables and his rich accent spoke to a good education and a certain strata of social standing. Sigma thought for a moment, enjoying the luxury of  _ wasting _ time. “You do not wish to conceal your advantages, do you? You have not approached me with some attempt to soften your intentions. I am here for a reason, and you seem to know your purpose. Choose how you wish to proceed.”

“Choose.” Akande hummed, facing the sprawling ferns on the other side of the walkway. It was intentional, Sigma believed: Akande was turning his back to Sigma, signalling his belief that Sigma was not a true threat. A measure of trust? Or a crass arrogance? “Choice is a foundation of human society. Human interactions, beyond the mere transactions of family, rely on the ability to choose. Human oppression has been dedicated to  _ removing _ choice, controlling the direction of another.”

“I was confined for my own good. Was the removal of my choices necessary?”

“No. This is why we sought you.”

“No it isn’t.” Sigma felt his irritation pique, the sensation rolling through him like thunder through a cloud. “You freed me at gunpoint and have tried to distract me with physics puzzles and morality questions. You cannot trust me with your organization’s secrets, and I have not asked for them. But you have not sought me because I was oppressed.”

“Very well.” Akande turned back, submitting to Sigma’s irritation. He had earned Akande’s attention, as he deserved. “We sought you because the security tapes of your first interview indicated that you had a certain control over gravity. Unprecedented, unpredicted. Your exposure to a gravitational anomaly changed something about you, and you have a gift.”

“I also have a doctorate.”

“Unfortunately, theoretical physics rarely turns a profit soon enough for our aims.”

“Theoretical physics earned me my gift.”

Akande faced him fully now, brow set. Sigma met his eyes, intrigued by the swirling storm therein, and smiled easily. Akande was interesting, but too set in his ways. Too aggressive. Akande believed that he had reached some pinnacle, some ending point--that he had reached the third act of his life. His story was written. But there was a delicacy about him that made Sigma question his true trajectory: often, those who assumed they had reached the third act--their victory, their triumph--were only facing the turn of their second act, yet to face their own hubris.

Sigma had faced his. Not perfectly, but he had faced something. He had reached a different height, one unpredicted by man or science. Just as Akande had said. 

“There may be opportunities for you to continue your researches, and we hope to reward our close allies with the resources of their choosing. We are not far from the Oasis. We have some friends among the staff.”

“Ah.” Sigma could not deny a certain attraction: his correspondence with members of the Oasis had been enlightening, but Sigma had been too concerned with university life to commit to them. The question of money had always been a sticking point… “But you cannot yet consider me an ally.”

“We would like to consider you a friend.”

“It is my choice, Akande.”

“I see.” Akande rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, eyes lifted to the clear dome above the foliage. “Have you chosen?”

Sigma lapsed into silence, watching Akande closely. The man was no fool. But he was an idealist. An idealist without religion, without creed? He could be dangerous. And there were others: Maximilien, and the other scientists he’d met. Was there a greater goal? 

“I have no choice.”

“Sigma--”

“Do not argue!” Sigma felt his shoulders tense, shaded by the trees. “Either I work with you, or I am found floating in the Seine. Or I am returned to the Hague. The only path for my freedom is with you.”

“We have given you the option.”

“It is no option. I am not a plaything, and I am not to be dismissed. I do have my requirements. I will make my requests. And if you would like me to exercise my powers, I would be glad for the opportunity. I will take whatever you give me. But do not pretend my choices are readily available.”

Akande did not respond right away, but eventually nodded slowly, stepping further out into the walkway. “You are no fool.”

“I have a doctorate.”

“I have met more doctors who are fools than you might expect.”

“Then evaluate me on my abilities. This is why you freed me, after all.”

“We will place you in the field within the year. Based on your performance--”

“So I am not being paid.”

“We will arrange a stipend. The organization recognizes good taste, as I hope Maximilien has demonstrated, and we do our best to reward individuals accordingly.”

Sigma turned away, feeling an itch beneath his fingers. He had been waiting for so long. Too long. All his readings and food and board were a gift, so far, and Akande was side-stepping the real questions.

“Do you work in the field?”

“On occasion.”

“Ah.” Well. So it wasn’t entirely veiled discussions and cozy smiles. “I would look forward to working with you, then.”

“Interesting.” Akande nodded again, inhaling deeply. Sigma imagined that the man was analyzing his scent, searching for the madness that had consumed him for months already. It was there, lurking. A blemish on a white tablecloth, a drop of blood on an otherwise spotless record. “We will start small. Good things come to those who wait.”

More waiting. Sigma shook out his arms, waking the nerves. He turned back to the way they had come, setting his shoulders to begin the walk back. Akande was forced to follow, falling into step beside him as they continued in a new silence. Like Maximilien, Akande was interesting to watch, but in matters of taste, the Omnic and the man differed. Akande was more practical, more driven. Maximilien was a flash of light dancing on the wall; Akande was the tapered candle to burn late into the night. 

The scientists Sigma had met were so sterile, even here. They had been cowed by Akande’s presence. Sigma wondered to himself if this “organization”, as shadowy and unnamed as it was, contained many individuals like Akande and Maximilien, or if they were mostly the uninspired sheep he’d met over the previous days. To imagine them dancing, orbiting these points of light the way planets orbit stars…

Sigma smiled to himself, allowing Akande the banal goodbyes as they parted, and returned to his quarters to think again. He’d agreed to participate, for whatever it was worth. He still had so much to learn. Reaching out with one hand, Sigma inhaled, feeling the friction as his own strength fought against that of Earth herself--

The contents of his room slammed against the ceiling, and Sigma sprawled against the rough surface with a broad smile. Akande was partially right: Sigma no longer worked with the strictly theoretical. He looked forward to finding ever more practical uses for his new strengths.


	3. Chapter 3

The training was not merely rigorous: it was excruciating at times, with physical exertion sometimes coupled with intense light or sound stimulus. Sigma had accepted each change without complaint, but when he’d awoken on the floor five hours after he’d entered the training area, he found that he had lost time. Akande had not been eager to explain, but Sigma was patient. To a point.

“You entered a manic state.”

“I dissociated. I lost time.”

“It was an impressive display, even elegant at times.”

“I don’t remember it.” Sigma knew that any bitterness he felt was useless: Akande was not the one who had driven him mad. But it was troublesome, this lurking terror, and Sigma spent several weeks vacillating between sneering at his shattered mind, and cringing from the possibility of a relapse.

Their conversations were very limited, with his reluctance visible. Even the professionals who came to speak with him were usually frustrated. Sigma threw himself into his physical work, strengthening muscles, refining his control. Tapping into his “power”, however unclear and fluid, was possible, even manageable, while he was lucid and aware. But, based on the eyewitness reports, the  _ explosion _ of force during his episodes was beyond any achievements he made while aware.

He had nightmares about werewolves, and stayed awake for seventy-two hours at a stretch until they faded.

He did not mind that they did not tell him about his training. He could see the results, especially when they strapped him into various pieces of hardware. He developed strength in maneuvering, in carrying his own armor, in orienting himself in a confined space. There was a breakthrough when he woke himself by  _ floating _ , and he’d surprised his observers to prompt a spontaneous round of applause. He liked to vary his habits: twenty-four hours walking normally, twenty-four hours levitating. Akande sent a bottle of wine in congratulations, and Sigma passed it to the staff in order to avoid drinking it alone. 

He didn’t object to drinking. He was concerned about getting fully drunk, for one thing, and he wasn’t sufficiently ready to try drinking socially. Maximilien had been the only being worth the drink, so far. And Maximilien wouldn’t even get drunk.

He was not frightened when they turned out the lights in the training room. He was  _ surprised,  _ but he had to restructure his fear to avoid it overwhelming him. The observer on duty hurried to explain to him, rushed to reassure him, but he merely listened and did not reply. He could see how the light reflected on his suit: he needed to practice orienting himself, anyway. The sense of oneself, the ability to sense one’s body, was one he needed in high quantities, since his own body was the single point of reference he would ever be able to use. 

When a thin red line became visible in the darkness, Sigma felt the fear spike, and he fought to swallow it down again as he began to run.

The echo of the shot was ear-shattering, even with the sound dampeners on the walls. Sigma forced himself into huge leaps, flipping to find the walls to bounce from, dodging the little red light. When it finally managed to catch up with him, he gasped with the impact--but there was no bullet, no piercing of the skin. Something clattered off his armor to leave him almost unharmed, and he was able to continue his pace without interruption.

Part of him celebrated at this. They were shooting at him, and he had not allowed the fear to overwhelm him! He did not  _ need _ fear any longer, not with his own advantages and the protections of his new organization. The little red light danced and spun, following him closely, and though he ran and spun with new exhilaration, the light began to catch up. The occasional impact became an impact with every fifth shot. Then every third shot. Then every other, until he was being hit more often than he was missed. As he raced over the obstacles and dodged around temporary walls, Sigma lost himself in the sensation of his own heart rate and breathing, the feathery sensation of his occasional weightlessness. Vaulting another obstacle, he dropped to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut as the lights were turned on again. 

He lay on the floor, catching his breath, and waited until the sound of clipped footsteps came within six feet before he opened his eyes again. The training room attendant was smiling, attempting an easy cheer, and Sigma did not dignify their approach with conversation. Instead, he looked up to the ceiling, scanning for the bulb or turret they must have used to target him. A clever addition--

But no. No, instead of a turret, there was a small platform. He hadn’t sought it during his run, focused on practicing the new skill, but it was obvious enough in the light. Atop the platform, a figure was crouched, using a thin grapple line to lower themselves to the ground as the room attendant watched.

The footsteps were different. Sigma closed his eyes for a moment to focus, a twinge of recognition aching in his chest, until--

High heels?

That’s what the sound was, certainly,  _ high heels _ of all things, like the ones the programs advisor used to wear, echoing down the hallway--he scrambled to sit up, getting to his feet to stare openly at the woman who now approached him.

Her skin was an unnatural shade, the blue of a frozen corpse, and Sigma could not muster the vocabulary to greet her properly. Her uniform was dangerously tight in a number of key locations, and Sigma belatedly realized that she was not intended to act in a front-line role. The information was not easily sorted, and he chided himself for slipping. Why would he have been so distracted?

“He is a tall man.” She spoke as if she were placing an order at a restaurant. An observation, cool and calm. But of course, she had not been the one running through the room. “He does not account for his height.”

Sigma considered that he was staring at her. Based on her reaction, it was an encounter she had faced before. “I am learning to adapt.”

“Learn faster.” She chided, looking at him directly. Sigma felt the steel in her gaze, the hard edge of dispassionate judgement, and felt the challenge.

“Give me five minutes without the attendant and we might see how much I can learn.”

“He does not account for his other deficiencies, either.”

“Are all female operatives so frigid? I’ve already elevated my heart rate for the day, but I can think of a few positions I’d like to practice further.” 

She studiously ignored his leer, and Sigma felt a measure of pride that they’d played this out. The attendant was staring in shock, unsure of who to address first, and Sigma relieved them of the burden by turning to them and holding out the hand most burdened with body armor. Stripping off the armor did not require him to disrobe, but even if it had, he would have welcomed the opportunity to unsettle this woman further. If that was possible, that is. As he ignored her to go, she walked quickly to move past him, almost pushing past him to get to the door first. It was strange to see, the odd hurry--

Did she want to avoid having him hold the door?

The thought made him smile, and when she turned to see him again, that smile was still firmly in place. Her gaze hardened further, and Sigma slowed as he reached the doorway, folding his arms over his chest.

“I don’t enjoy deceptions. Not now, anyway.”

“Then you chose the wrong organization.” 

“I assume we’ll be working together at some point. You must have been briefed on me: as the new kid, I am not often briefed on anything important. Sigma de Kuiper, by the way.” He finally nodded his introduction, watching her lack of response. “You chose the costume?”

“Suit.” She corrected. “And yes.”

“Thank you.”

“I did not choose it for--”

“No, thank you for not lying. I meant what I said: I do not enjoy deceptions. You don’t find the suit uncomfortable because it is revealing; you simply don’t  _ like _ many things.”

“That capacity was considered unnecessary for my...performance as an operative.” If anything, her speech had become even more curt and clipped, surgically precise. Sigma fell silent, refusing to move for several long moments before he nodded deeply.

“I’m sorry. My mind may have been altered, but at least I am relatively certain that the influence was not intelligent. This may sound a hollow comfort, but trust me: at least for a physicist, the knowledge that random chaos was the thing in my brain is reassuring.”

“For the second time, it sounds as if you have chosen the wrong organization. Talon is working toward order, not chaos.”

Sigma smiled again, allowing it to fade soon after. “I do not believe choice was a major feature of my time here so far.”

She matched his gaze, the hardest edges of her demeanor softening slightly. With a nod, she straightened, squaring her shoulders. “My label is Widowmaker. I have no other title.”

Widowmaker. How painfully literal! Then again, he’d adopted a Greek symbol as his moniker. Perhaps he would reserve judgement. “I look forward to working with you, Widowmaker.”

“I thought you disliked deceptions. Do not lie now.”

He shrugged. “It is partially true. I am looking forward to working, in whatever capacity it takes.”

“Then I envy you that.” Widowmaker nodded curtly, that shield once more dropping into place around her expression, and moved past him to continue down the hallway. Clearly, their conversation was over. Sigma waited until she was out of sight, then mimicked the departure to return to his regular schedule. 

What a fascinating encounter. He had made his overtures, but he had simply borrowed the meager witticisms to watch her response; sex was far from his mind, particularly with such sexless specimens as the other academics on base. Her appearance, however, had demanded some sort of response, and rather than placate her with some complex explanation, he had moved past the stage of flirtation to establish himself in her mind. She was not as  _ interesting _ as Maximilien or Akande, but at least she wasn’t a researcher. 

Hopefully, her appearance was a sign that he was finally moving into the proper strata of the organization. The sooner he got to work, the better.


End file.
